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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22534138">Farmlands</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehanjetaime/pseuds/jehanjetaime'>jehanjetaime</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Les Misérables - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - 1930s, Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Breaking and Entering, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Painting, Politics, Trans Enjolras, Trans Male Character, farmer!Grantaire</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 12:55:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,351</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22534138</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehanjetaime/pseuds/jehanjetaime</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is happy with his life. Farming his land and raising his animals, making wine and painting when he can find the time...the world is changing around him, but Grantaire's life stays the same. The 1930s are a time of political turmoil, and even with his rather secluded existence, Grantaire feels the changes. Small farms such as his own are on the way out, but until trouble comes knocking on his door, Grantaire will keep going about his day.</p><p>When a political exile barges into Grantaire's quiet life, everything changes. He must decide if he will embrace those changes, or keep his eyes on the dirt.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>42</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Just a little something that got into my head.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Small farms were dying out. It was true all over the Western world. Farmers were forced to sell to conglomerates, either their lands or their services. The days of a man working the land, caring for his animals, and harvesting his crops all for himself were coming to an end.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hercule Grantaire wasn’t going to die so easily. He didn’t have much land, 40 hectares curving around a grassy hill. He didn’t make much, just enough to keep his house and tractor up, care for his animals, and pay a local boy to help him. Grantaire was simply known as that - Grantaire, the farmer at the bottom of the hill. He saw the milkman when it came time to make deliveries. A couple times a week, a broken down truck came for eggs. Any surplus crops went to individuals who came looking to spend their francs without the higher costs of a middle man, but anything left he would use to supply the small general store in town. Every once in a while, he sold an animal to the butcher, but more often than not he salted the meat and kept it in his cellar.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The cellar was where Grantaire found himself on a rainy autumn day, making sure his stores were prepared for the rapidly approaching winter. Salted pork was good, pickled eggs were in fine stock. Grantaire still had beef jerky left from the cow he had slaughtered in the spring. It had to be done. Grantaire loved his animals, but he also was a farmer. There were some things that were just part of the circle of life. And that involved eating. Grantaire pushed aside a row of drying herbs and opened a small door that led to his prize possession - a wine cellar, dug out by himself, cool clay spread over the walls, wine made from his own grapes and Mirabelle plums aging in handmade barrels. The dates were lovingly painted on each barrel, and on the glass bottles that he called an investment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The wine, he didn’t usually sell. It was for him and for gifts. Or bribes, when necessary.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shut the door after making sure everything was set, no leaks, no cracks. The rain could get down there sometimes during downpours. It certainly was a downpour that day, and the wind must have been brutal. While Grantaire had been in the celllar, he had heard banging around upstairs. He would go check on the windows, make sure nothing had been blown open - or broken. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He took the stairs two at a time, dirt shaking under the boards and garlic swinging against his shoulder as he went.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The culprit was easy to be found - a window in the front of the house was open, the shutters still. Grantaire went to shut them, but peeked out the window first. The rain was coming straight down. He closed and latched the shutters, hands coming away dry. In fact, the entire floor was dry. Huh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire didn’t think much of it. He walked through the kitchen to the back porch where he grabbed a bucket of rain water. His crops that should have been covered were covered, the barns closed. Grantaire didn’t want to go to the well, so this would do. He emptied the bucket into an old cauldron that hung over his fireplace. Humming, he chopped a couple potatoes and took some salted pork that was sitting on the counter, adding both to the pot. Grantaire would need to go fishing; if the rain let up by evening, the river nearby would be teeming with fish. For now, though, he would have the same soup he usually made. The ingredients were simple - whatever he had lying around. He would make it for lunch and have the rest for dinner, as usual. After Grantaire set the fire, he wandered out to the front porch, just to watch the rain. He noticed that his rocking chair was not in the normal spot, turned at an angle. Must have accidentally left it that way. Grantaire sat down in the chair and rocked himself a little, making a mental list of the things he had to do over the next two days. Work as a farmer was never done. Not if he wanted to survive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a quick lunch, he putt on his heavy, oiled jacket and wandered out to check the covers for his crops. Grantaire tightened a few ropes and deepened a few trenches, then checked his animals. The chicken coop was a nightmare, smelly and covered in feather. His ladies hated being locked up, but they weren't that bright and he didn’t want to lose one. The rooster, as always, was sleeping. His two remaining cows were in the barn, and his goats were huddled together in the hay. The only animals outside were his two pigs, who were rooting about in their partially covered enclosure. He wouldn’t bring them until it was evening.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pleased, Grantaire cleaned out some hay, then climbed to the loft and made sure the shutters were closed up there as well. As he returned, he looked over his house. It was clearly meant for a family but still small - the first floor a sitting room and kitchen, the second floor his bedroom and an extra room he used for storage, then an attic that was empty except for more hay, for insulation. </span>
  <span>Grantaire’s life was very hay-heavy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The windows all looked secure, except...hm. That was strange. Something was shimmering in the small window of his attic. And then, just as suddenly it wasn’t. A trick of the light in the heavy rain, surely. It was starting to come down harder than ever. Grantaire would work inside for the rest of the day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Other than his farm and wine, Grantaire had another way to make money. He sold paintings - small ones, usually landscapes. There was a rumor in town that he had a sickly wife who did the delicate paintings, and he had never corrected anyone who tried to bring it up. Let them say what they would. Grantaire never had visitors that made it inside the house. He worked on a small piece based off an island from one of the many books that sat in piles around his house. Grantaire knew that it was not done yet, but he only painted in small bursts. He had too much other stuff to do. On this day, he was lucky to work through the late hours of the evening, the radio - something that he wasn’t really able to afford but had bought anyways - playing in the background. He ate dinner and fed the animals once more before turning in for the night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire was usually out the moment he hit the pillow, but that night the rain, still pounding away, was keeping him up. He liked the sound of it, but it was heavy. He could hear it dripping through the shingles and boards, hitting the tin layer underneath. Maybe he would feel better if he just went up and checked it out. With a sigh, Grantaire rolled out of bed. He slipped on a thick sweater that he always hung from his bed post, and the old boots he kept under his dresser just for things like this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The entrance to the attic was just a ladder up to a small door, and Grantaire eased it open carefully. There was no immediate wet hay smell, which was a relief. A roof leak was the last thing he wanted to deal with. He kept a flashlight right at the top of the ladder, and he patted around until found it. Grantaire flipped it on, then poked his head up into the doorway. He ran the flashlight’s beam over the hay and the rafters, but didn’t see anything. The sound was loud up here, thanks to the tin, but everything seemed to be dry and in order. Grantaire flashed his light over the window, but didn’t see anything that could have made that shimmer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he was satisfied, Grantaire flipped the flashlight off and set it back where it went before closing the door and descending the ladder. He climbed back into bed and was finally able to fall asleep, the rain pattering above him turning from an annoyance to a comfort.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Grantaire had already gathered eggs and had breakfast by the time the sun rose. The sky was dry and clear, but the ground was still muddy. Grantaire had pretty much forgotten everything that had happened yesterday. He had animals to feed, and he needed to uncover the crops. Hopefully Gavroche would show up around lunchtime - that was usually when the boy came around. Sometimes his...questionable parents had other tasks for him, but he liked to come here better. Grantaire paid him, for one. He also hoped that Gavroche saw him as an older brother, because Grantaire saw Gavroche as a younger brother. Either way, he would wait to see if anyone was coming before he handled the crops. Grantaire milked the cows and the nanny goat, filling two buckets. Each bucket, he attached to the hooks on each side of his yoke. His muscles strained as he ducked under the yoke and hoisted it onto his shoulders. Grabbing each bucket, he stood up and brought them to his back porch. His ice box was out there, and he stored the milk in there, to cool before bottling. It was almost time for the milkman to come pick up in this area, and Grantaire had a good supply. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He set the yoke against across his back steps so he wouldn’t forget to bring it back to the barn, then headed inside to start his usual lunch. </span>
  <span>Just as he opened the door to the cellar, however, Grantaire heard a sound upstairs. It wasn’t rain, or wind. This time, it was clearly footsteps. The footsteps of someone trying to sneak about. Grantaire heard the distinct sound of his bedroom door opening. It had always squeaked. The sound cut off immediately, and Grantaire heard footsteps heading away from the door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grantaire liked to box. He was a fit man, with large arms and a strong layer of muscle under his belly. But he didn’t know what this intruder wanted, or what weapons they might have. He eased his boots off silently, and moved to his front door, where he grabbed his loaded shotgun. Grantaire snuck back to the kitchen and stood in the only real place downstairs where he could hide - behind the open cellar door. Then he waited.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a couple minutes full of the clock ticking and hesitant footsteps upstairs, Grantaire finally heard the intruder coming down the stairs. There was clearly someone walking around, an unknown person in his house, and he didn’t know what they wanted. He had every right to go out there shooting, but it wasn’t his way. It was hard to tell where the intruder was, but it sounded like they were moving towards the front door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shit.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He almost laughed at the way the intruder swore. What were they swearing at?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grantaire’s thoughts were interrupted when footsteps approached the kitchen. He gripped his gun, finger on the trigger, hand on the musket. Finally, someone came into view. The first thing he saw was beautiful blond hair, curls down past round shoulders. A girl? The intruder was wearing pants. Who was this person and what did they want? The intruder approached the pot of soup of the fire, back to Grantaire. He had the perfect shot.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But he didn’t want to shoot anyone. Instead, he shouted out, “Who are you!?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The intruder didn’t even turn around to see him. They ran right out the black door. Grantaire chased after them, but heard a crash before he even got to the back door. He flung it open and saw the person running for the edge of his farm. The yoke that had been across the stairs was now on the ground, haphazardly across the path. Grantaire watched the person disappear into the woods that lined the western section of his farm.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What was going on here?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He went back inside and locked the back door. Grantaire latched every window, checked every nook and cranny of his downstairs for anyone else, then locked the front door. He never locked his doors before, but that was going to change now. After that, he checked the upstairs and the attic. Grantaire went up the attic and opened the window to see better. Now that it was daylight and he was standing up there completely instead of only sticking his head through the door, it was easy to spot a place where the hay was pressed down - like someone had been laying there.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A chill crawled up his spine. Had the intruder been up here all night, while Grantaire slept unawares right below?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grantaire kicked his way through the hay, stirring up bugs and a family of mice. But there were no other signs of life.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he climbed down from the attic, he took the ladder down and stored it under his bed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By the time he did another walk through of the house and watched the treeline a little more, his soup smelled ready. Grantaire served up a bowl, but took it to his back porch to eat while watching over his farm. After one bowl, he heard stomping and shouting. That didn’t concern him. He just smiled, because a moment later Gavroche came around the corner of the house. He was young,13 years old, and looked smaller. The freckles on his face crinkled as he glared at Grantaire. He was holding a newspaper, and pointed it at Grantaire. “Why is your front door locked?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The last thing Grantaire wanted was to scare Gavroche. He wouldn’t mention it. “It’s just safer that way. Do you want some soup?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As usual, the promise of food made Gavroche’s face light up. Grantaire told him to go serve himself, and Gavroche dropped the newspaper in Grantaire’s lap to go do that. He set his own bowl off to the side and picked the paper up. He unfolded it, and the front page was taken up by a large picture of a chaotic looking scene in Paris, next to a grainy picture of a bold looking young man. It looked like it came from a school’s yearbook or something similar. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“FRENCH COMMUNIST PARTY SPLINTERS IN VIOLENT RIOT,” read the headline. Grantaire scanned the article. A student had apparently worked his way into the ranks of the FCP with the goal of taking people away to a new political group without ties to so many totalitarian states, and when he made a speech detailing what he had been up to, violence ensued. Sûreté nationale officers easily blamed the student Lucien Enjolras for inciting the violence. Apparently, he had escaped, and officers believed that he was running for the German or Swiss border. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Isn’t that amazing?” came Gavroche’s voice. He had come back out with a bowl of soup and was now peeking over Grantaire’s shoulder. “I think he’s amazing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What are you talking about?” Grantaire said, setting the paper down. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gavroche climbed up on the porch railing and sat there, bowl on his lap. “This Enjolras guy! He sounds like a hero! He infiltrated an entire political party to bring people to a better one!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sounds like a waste of time to me,” Grantaire said, looking over the pictures again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” Gavroche scoffed. “It’s amazing! He wants better for our country! He thought his political party was WRONG and wanted to fix it!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“By starting a riot?” Grantaire wasn’t so sure about that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sometimes that’s what you have to do! Don’t you think France deserves better?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Why was this 13 year old so opinionated about politics? Surely that wasn’t normal. “What’s the point? Nothing changes. Nothing ever well. I’ll just keep my head down on my farm.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gavroche frowned around his spoon. “Don’t you believe in change?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He thought about the history of his country. All of the bloody war, the revolutions. Nothing ever helped. People were never happy with what they had. “Sorry, Gavroche. I can’t say that I do.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well I think it’s really fantastic what this guy did!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grantaire let Gavroche rave while he finished eating. They brought their bowls into the kitchen, and when Grantaire brushed Gaveroche out to the fields, he locked the door behind them. Together, they uncovered the crops just in time for the afternoon sun. After that rain, they didn’t need any watering. Grantaire and Gavroche discussed everything as they did so and began checking the crops or infestations or rot. Art, music, history, more current events - whatever topic, they always had good conversations. Gavroche let the animals out of the barn for the afternoon, and they cleaned out more hay, then refilled the water troughs. While Gavroche cleaned out the chicken coop, Grantaire checked a few fox traps on the outside of his farm. As he did so, he looked into the forest. It was not a thick forest, and if anyone had been out there, he would have seen them. There was nothing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before it got dark, Gavroche wrangled the animals back into the barn and they fed them all together. Grantaire made sure to feed Gavroche, knowing that his parents did not feed him as much as they should have. It wasn’t even a matter that the family was poor - they just did not care about their children. That was the sort of private thing that disgusted Grantaire, not massive, country-shattering struggles.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gavroche left at twilight, some coins now filling his pocket, and Grantaire waved him off. Once the boy was out of sight, Grantaire remembered that he hadn’t put any fresh hay in the cow’s enclosure. Swearing, he dragged himself back to the barn. He unlatched the door and threw it open.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Only to find a stranger staring at him. Those blond curls and slim frame were that of the intruder Grantaire had seen in his house. That stern mouth and dainty nose were that of someone Grantaire had never seen in person. Someone that he hadn’t even known existed until earlier that day.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re Lucien Enjolras. From the riots in Paris.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The young man looked around with wild blue eyes, but the only other exit was still latched, and getting out that way would require walking through the pig enclosure anyways. He was holding his wrist to his chest, and Grantaire noticed that it was at an odd angle and dark purple.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sighed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe you need to sit down.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This young man, Lucien Enjolras, proceeded to do that - right there in the hay and dirt on the floor of Grantaire’s barn. He was still cradling the wrist. Grantaire just watched him, surprised. “Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...fuck,” Enjolras finally whispered, under his breath.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grantaire <em>had</em> to laugh that time.  “You can say that again. Along with a lot of other stuff. I think you owe me an explanation.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks for all the kudos and comments so far!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Much more dialogue than the last chapters, but when you get Enjolras and Grantaire together...also, I understand pretty much nothing of political parties and views, so please keep that in mind!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Drink this,” Grantaire said, placing a handmade clay cup in front of Enjolras. It was full of wine. “You need it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I still can’t believe you invited me here, after I broke in.” Enjolras set his injured wrist on his lap. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grantaire opened one of his drawers and pulled out his old tackle box, which had turned into a first aid kit of sorts. He didn’t have much, but he had wine for pain and bandages to compress it. “Well, I figure with your injury, what else could you do to me? What happened? Was that from your riot?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” Enjolras said right away. Grantaire turned around, unwinding the bandage from the messy ball someone - him - had left it in. “This happened today when I tripped over that...thing on your stairs.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thing? Oh, my yoke? Well I would apologize if you hadn’t been fleeing my house…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Enjolras gave him a withering look. Grantaire felt like a child in school; that feeling was immediately replaced by a feeling of foolishness, for letting a man who was hiding on his property chastise him. “Let me see your wrist.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a wince, Enjolras raised his arm. Grantaire took his elbow and hand with a feather-light touch. The bruising was bright and deep; Grantaire knew that it would look even worse tomorrow. “I’m going to move your hand. Tell me how it feels.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He could hardly move Enjolras’ hand without making him wince or gasp. But Grantaire had dealt with his own broken bones, with injuries to his animals, and he liked to think that he was somewhat adept at this sort of thing. “Fortunately, I don’t think it’s broken,” he said. “But it’s definitely sprained. If you’re going down, don’t try to stop yourself - </span>
  <em>
    <span>that’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> when you’re going to get hurt.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well I didn’t expect to be tripping down your steps.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grantaire started to wrap Enjolras’ wrist, starting up near the elbow. Enjolras’ skin was soft against Grantaire’s own calloused hands. He wasn’t used to that. Delicate didn’t last long on a farm. When he finished, Enjolras pressed his fingers against the banadages and tried moving his fingers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you. But I should be out of here.” He made to stand, but Grantaire shook his head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s late. You’re injured. And you haven’t even tried my wine.” He picked up the cup and held it out. “Stay the night. You can even sleep on the couch instead of in the attic.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Enjolras took the cup. “I’m a wanted criminal, you know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Eh. We all have our flaws.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a shrug, Enjolras took a drink of wine - and promptly started coughing. “This is strong! You made this? What for, to knock a horse out?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grantaire laughed again, and took the rest of the bottle. He couldn’t sleep at night without a good drink. The curse of a farmer. “It’s good for you. Finish that cup, then go to bed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t get to tell me what to do just because you’re letting me stay,” Enjolras said, setting his cup down to daub at his jacket. It looked too big and didn’t quite match his pants, but he was inspecting it for an errant wine droplets as if it were Italian silk.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m going to bed, then,” Grantaire said. He stood up, taking the bottle with him. “If you are going to rob me, try to do it quietly. I need my rest.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When Grantaire woke up in the morning, he had not been robbed. In fact, everything in his house was much the same.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Except for the blond man sleeping on his couch. Enjolras was on his stomach, arm extended to rest his injured wrist on the coffee table. He was snoring just a bit, and those golden curls spread over the cushion.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Had someone like this really incited a crowd to violence?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grantaire didn’t have time to think about it. He loved history and adored romance, thought in mathematics in the field, and dreamed in art. Those things were big picture to him, much bigger than human beings. War, politics...humans, as a species, had minds that evolved past all of that. Human beings were above such things. </span>
  <span>No one else seemed to think that way. That was alright; Grantaire was used to being an outlier.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He gathered eggs and made breakfast. Enjolras did not stop snoring; Grantaire wouldn’t wake him. He did leave a note telling his guest where to find bread and jam, however. Let no one say that Grantaire was inhospitable. He went out to begin his day. Strange occurrence or not, Grantaire had a farm to run.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he finally looked towards the house again, he saw gold against the drab brown wood. Enjolras, sitting out on the back porch. Grantaire wandered over, watering crops and looking for rot as he went. As he got closer, he realized that Enjolras was looking at something on his small table, turning pages. It must have been the newspaper Gavroche left behind yesterday. How odd it must be, to read about yourself in such a big newspaper. Grantaire had only once been in the local paper, for raising the fattest chicken in the area. It was actually cut out and saved in one of his books. Gavroche’s idea. That was nothing compared to the spread about Enjolras.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grantaire walked up the few steps to his porch. “Rereading your own exploits?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Enjolras shook his head; one golden curl slipped down his shoulder. “World events. I’ve missed a lot in the past few days.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t think I’ve ever read the world events section of a paper in my life.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That made Enjolras look up at him, ogling as if he had two heads. “What? That’s madness.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grantaire shrugged. “A war in China or a business in America is not going to impact my farm.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“People said the same when Archduke Franz Ferdinand was shot,” Enjolras said, turning his attention back to the paper.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When was the last time Grantaire had said something with such conviction? It was admirable. A little irritating, but mostly admirable. He would push it aside. “How is your wrist?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It aches,” Enjolras said. “I slept through the night, but this pain…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“More wine,” Grantaire suggested. “And food.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I saw your note. Thank you, I did have bread and jam. Though your drawers are a mess. You don’t often have company, do you?” He turned the page.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Usually my company doesn’t go through my drawers.” Grantaire leaned against the railing. It wasn’t even noon yet and it was already getting hot. He unbuttoned one of his sleeves to roll it up, dirty fingers smudging the off-white fabric. When he glanced up from pushing the sleeve high on his forearm, Enjolras was looking at him again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” Enjolras leaned back in the chair. “I was just wondering what sort of man you are to not kick me out. Clearly you have the newspaper. You read what I did.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Barely,” Grantaire admitted with a shrug. “Inciting riots?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Inciting people! Waking them up to what could be! Things became violent because those in power want it to be!” All of a sudden, he seemed to light up. His blue eyes were clear and fervent, his cheeks already darkening.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Aren’t you a communist?” Grantaire asked. “I thought that you didn’t believe in power.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Enjolras scoffed. “A communist. Not as it is practiced here. Not when it is taken to be a totalitarian dictatorship! What means do they seize in so-called communist countries? The means to pad their own pockets? No one understands that we should not be tied to the name of 'communism,' or even 'socialism,' how it makes us look and how it draws people with improper ideology to our ranks! That is what I was doing. Trying to explain that the French Communist Party has lost its way, and that those who truly believe in equality and justice should leave with me, that we could start a new party, and - “</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He finally took a breath, and looked far, far away. “Things got out of hand. I would do it again, though, as long as it gets people talking.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But look where it got you,” Grantaire pointed out, gesturing to his lands. “In a little farm hundreds of kilometers from where you started, alone with a sprained wrist. Was it worth it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Enjolras turned back to the front page. “Yes, it was. I know what I did wrong, and that lets me prepare for next time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Next time?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course. With this experience behind me, my next large move will be more successful.” Enjolras looked him over. “Unless you plan on turning me in.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grantaire finished rolling up his sleeves and raised his hands, palms open to face Enjolras. “What would that get me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...you didn’t see? There’s a reward out for my arrest.” He pointed to the end of the article, which Grantaire had never made it to. “20,000 francs.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That was a lot of money.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then I suppose you better stay away from the windows if anyone comes around,” Grantaire said. “I have no plans on turning you in.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Enjolras opened his mouth as if he planned on arguing. But then he just sat back again. “...well. Thank you. I won’t be here long.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“As you say. I’ll leave you to the affairs of the world; my pigs need my attention.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gavroche did not arrive that day, which Grantaire thought was for the best; there was no way he could hide Enjolras’ presence from the boy. The last thing he needed was for Gavroche to follow this man away. It almost felt as if Enjolras was as young as Gavroche, with his smooth face and soft hands...until those eyes caught light. Then he looked not only wise beyond his years, but damn near immortal. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grantaire had never met a man like him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As they debated their way through lunch - this time about the effects of the American financial situation on the world - Grantaire wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. They seemed to disagree in every way possible. Grantaire did not think that the happenings in one country had an overarching effect on the others, while Enjolras retorted that that even borders could not stop the largest of events. When Enjolras said that he believed in the goodness of people’s hearts, Grantaire just opened the newspaper to point out three headlines about murder, extortion, and war. Grantaire said that if everyone just kept their head down and did what they needed to do for the survival of themselves and their own, Enjolras laughed at him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Have you no sense of the greater good?” Enjolras asked, tapping his spoon against the rim of his bowl.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Perhaps I will,” Grantaire replied, “When I see a good that is great enough.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He let up when he noticed the ginger way Enjolras started to move after that. The man was still in pain. Grantaire only refrained from suggesting that he rest because Enjolras did not seem to like being told what to do.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Grantaire came in for the night, though, Enjolras was completely out, once again snoring on the couch. Grantaire shook his head, but left him be. Let him rest. Grantaire should get to bed as well. Gavroche would be here in the morning; that promised to be tiring.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A little longer than usual! Can you tell I'm thirsty for muscular farmers?</p><p>Thanks for reading!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Grantaire spent the early morning getting the milk ready. The milkman would be here soon to pick it up. It would be nice to get the money put away from this. He stacked crates on the cart attached to his tractor and climbed aboard. With only minimal struggle, he got the tractor to rumble to life. He would leave a trail of rust powder and paint flakes behind him, but he refused to buy a new tractor when this one still worked perfectly well. It was just a little bit ugly, like everything else on his farm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He saw a flash of gold through the window as he rounded the house.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe not </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Over the rumble of his tractor, Grantaire barely heard the milkman pull up. He thought that he heard voices. Maybe he had brought his wife or business partner. That happened sometimes. Grantaire got along with all three of them - they were the only people he really spent time with when he was able to drag himself into town. He finished the short trip around the house, bottles clanking behind him, and raised his hand. “Bossuet!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bossuet looked up from the person he was talking to. It was not his lovely wife, nor was it his partner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was Enjolras, wearing that same jacket pulled tight around him, wrist supported in a homemade sling. That wild hair had been pulled back but was still vibrant. He looked over as well, with those eyes that seemed to pierce right through Grantaire’s soul. “Your milkman delivers to even those who can’t pay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...I know?” Grantaire said. Or asked. Something in between.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras looked him over. “Who makes up the money for free milk?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At that, Grantaire shrugged. “He pays me what he pays me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sometimes milk falls off the truck,” Bossuet said with a smile. The grey morning light glinted off of his bald head, but his beard was lush and russet. “Can’t help that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras looked between them, then smiled, just a little. “It’s good to see people taking care of each other.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Speaking of, Grantaire glanced at him nervously. “Did you come outside just to say hello?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have never seen this area before, </span>
  <em>
    <span>cousin</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Enjolras said. Grantaire could have laughed - he and Enjolras looked nothing alike. They could never be even third cousins. “I want to speak to the people.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire wasn’t sure about that. This was a busy morning already, as early as it was. People were passing by along the road, and his house was close enough to the road that anyone would be able to see them all. Not many people around here had hair like Enjolras’. He stood out, even in the morning gloom. Grantaire pulled the tractor up a little more, trying to hide Enjolras from the road. The man was wanted after all, or had he forgotten? He hopped off and started to unload the milk onto the back of Bossuet’s cart. Bossuet immediately started to help. It was chilled with ice back there, enough to keep the milk cold while Bossuet brought it to be processed, so he could pick up what he had left last time. It was simple. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So,” Bossuet asked as he and Grantaire worked. Enjolras watched from the porch, looking uncomfortable. “Where do you come from, Julien?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least Enjolras had given him a fake name. Enjolras answered, “Orléans. It’s quite a trip so I don’t make it up here as much as I would like.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was quick, wasn’t he?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras asked a lot of questions while Bossuet was there, mostly curious how he felt about big business and farms, about government interference with small businesses, if control had stretched all the way out here. Bossuet answered with intelligence and thought. Grantaire was suitably impressed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Bossuet finally left, Grantaire just looked to Enjolras. “What are you doing, coming out here? Is there or is there not a bounty on your head?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That didn’t seem to concern Enjolras too much. “This is a good chance for me to feel out rural communities. I can’t do that in Paris. To waste the chance now…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re just lucky Bossuet is a good man.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This area seems to be full of good men,” Enjolras said. Grantaire had to look away from his gaze. “Did you eat yet?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, Bossuet comes early enough that I put it off,” Grantaire said. It was easiest that way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras looked towards the road. It was busier still, people passing mostly on foot and horse drawn carts. Only a few people in this poor, remote area had automobiles, and those people had no reason to come this way, this early. The sun was starting to rise in earnest now. “...go to your crops. I’ll make breakfast.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire’s eyes lingered on Enjolras’ broken wrist, which made him scoff. “I won’t stay here without pulling my weight, but I doubt I would be of any use to you in the field with my wrist this way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well. Grantaire could understand not wanting to be a burden. “If you insist, my kitchen is yours.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He went to his animals and his crops, the sky staying grim and grey. Autumn was coming on fast. Migrant workers would be coming around soon, looking for work. Grantaire could never afford to take on everyone who asked, but tried to hire anyone he could during harvest season, and then for winter preparation. It wouldn’t be long now at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There were some things that had grown in quickly, and some remains from last season. Grantaire scoured his fields, pushing a wheelbarrow full of produce in front of him as he went. Some crops could be left for next year, but most would have to be completely dug up to start fresh. That was fine by him. Grantaire enjoyed tilling the dirt; the mindless action left him time to think. It was the only time he could handle being alone with his thoughts. Most of the time, he sang alone out in the fields. This morning was no different, Grantaire singing quietly to himself as he worked. He mostly sang hymns, in Latin, though if Gavroche was around he sang bawdy drinking songs to make the boy laugh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Asperges me, Domine</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” his voice rang out, winding through the rods and leaves of his crops. Grantaire wouldn’t say he was a religious man, but the chants and the hymns were beautiful, and the themes often spoke to him. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Hyssopo et mundabor.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Lavabis me, et super nivem dealbabor.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Miserere mei, Deus, secundum magnam misericordiam tuam…</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t know how well he actually sang, but maybe the plants liked it. It made him feel...calmer inside to imagine that they did.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire dropped his wheelbarrow off near the back porch, then walked the treeline to check his traps. He was pleased to find a large rabbit in one of his traps. Stew - that would be excellent filled out with potatoes and carrots, maybe turnips. Enjolras clearly needed meat on his bones. He was one of the skinniest men Grantaire had ever seen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was still odd to him - a revolutionary, living in his house. Grantaire had wondered how a man like that could cause a riot. Now he just thought of Enjolras’ inciting gaze, the power and conviction with which he spoke his words. Maybe he could see it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire hung the rabbit in the barn to drain, then wiped his hands off. Maybe it was about time to see what Enjolras himself was doing. He started the walk back to the house, still humming. As he did, he could already smell cooking food wafting towards him. It was a very strong smell, to reach him here. It was the smell of eggs and bread and fruits. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was also clearly burning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a modicum of caution, Grantaire climbed onto the porch and opened his back door. A cloud of smoke rushed out into the fresh air, and Grantaire heard coughing. He stepped inside and saw Enjolras, holding the frying pan out to the side safely. His old oven, black and ornery, had done what it did best - belched air onto the fire. There was a reason he made a lot of soup. He was about to offer help when Enjolras set the flying pan down on a towel, a mound of perfectly scrambled eggs sitting in it. Enjolras shoved the over door shut with his foot and reached up to yank on the flue cover until it crashed into place. He whipped around to throw the window open, batting smoke out with a kitchen towel. When the room cleared, he finally seemed to notice Grantaire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...how much of that did you see?” he asked, sounding mildly embarrassed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Enough,” Grantaire said, leaning against the open door, “to be impressed with how quick you are under pressure. That old oven sort of has a mind of its own. What were you making?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras walked back over to the oven and picked up a wooden spoon to poke at the pan. “I was finishing up the bacon...it’s still fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see you had no problem making yourself at home,” Grantaire pointed out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How was I going to make breakfast if I was shy of your kitchen? Or your cellar. That’s a lot of wine.” He started moving the bacon - crispy and dark but not inedible - from the pan to a plate. Grantaire didn’t think he’d used so many plates at one time in months. Enjolras had set the table...kind of. Grantaire didn’t think it was the posh way of doing it, but there were utensils and dishes out, and a glass bottle of milk. He just sort of looked at. Whatever Enjolras was saying went right over his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You did all this? For me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras set the plate on the table, and moved the pan of eggs over as well. He looked Grantaire in the eye, a smear of jam on his cheek. “I pull my weight, like I said. Now do you want to eat or not?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire just sat down. They each plated up eggs and crispy bacon, with thick slabs of toasted bread with butter and jam. Enjolras looked over the spread. "I used to go to a small café for all of my meals,” he said. “My mother would be pleased to know I remembered SOME of what she taught me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is she back in Paris?” Grantaire asked, pouring milk for both of them. It was damp from the ice box.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Enjolras said, scooping up a forkful of eggs. “Both of my parents are long dead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry to hear it. Mine as well.” Grantaire sighed. “Father wanted me to follow him into his business, but I was never good with math or numbers. So farming suits me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He swore Enjolras’ eyes lingered on his arms. That made him feel...some sort of way. “Farmers are the backbone of society,” Enjolras said. “No one can run a country, protect the innocent, or heal illnesses on an empty stomach. I didn’t know how many small farms like yours still existed, honestly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Less and less each year. But I believe that mine is safe. What could I offer the government?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They hate competition. They’ll tell you that they want to keep it going, unless it threatens them…” Enjolras shook his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have a lot of big ideas,” Grantaire said. “Beyond anything I understand.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anyone who doesn’t understand that the government abuses her people is actively refusing to understand.” He speared a piece of bacon. “That’s why I did what I did. I want to take the governing role back for the people. We are not meant to be mistreated and used in the way the government has done since the invention of the damn thing. You give a small group of people power and they are guaranteed to become corrupt - if it was not their corruption that brought them to the position to begin with!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire had never met anyone who spoke this way. So much passion, passion Grantaire had never felt. “You care so much. All I care for with such fervor is wine and women.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras pointed over his shoulder. “Your farm tells me otherwise. Protect her, Grantaire. Nothing stays quiet for long.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was pinned under the arrows that were always nocked in Enjolras’ eyes. Grantaire was usually verbose, but all the air was pushed from his lungs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If someone hadn’t knocked on the front door, he didn’t know what he would have done. It was also a knock he knew well. “The boy who helps me out sometimes is here. He was...very taken with you in the paper. I’ll try to keep him outside.” He could see Enjolras getting ready to argue. “Trust me. He’ll follow you if he finds out you were here and ran off. That’s the last thing we need.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras sighed. “Fine. I suppose you’re right. I’ll just go upstairs.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire let him go off with his plate before answering the door. It was Gavroche, of course, and Grantaire fed him before sending him off to work. As for Grantaire himself, he needed to take care of the weeds out front - they were encroaching on his porch and pathway. Grantaire was not a neat man, but they were in the way. He took a trowel and burlap sack to head out front.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somewhere during the day, the sun broke through the clouds for a hot autumn day. There wouldn’t be many more of them left. Grantaire ended up stripping his jacket off and hanging it on the mailbox, and eventually he rolled his sleeves up all the way and unbuttoned the collar, too. Each weed was dug out by the root and stuffed into his burlap sack, leaving his sweating as the sun rose higher in the sky. He worked steadily for hours, only stopping once to tell Gavroche where the rest of the chicken feed was. As he straightened up from that, he thought he saw a face in the upstairs window. But when he looked again, nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oooh, hello!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Any sense of accomplishment or maybe even joy that Grantaire felt was washed away by a raspy voice. Only one person in the town sounded like that. He huffed through his nose, then turned towards the road with a smile. “Madame Thénardier!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavroche’s mother had surely been beautiful once, but years of hardship had worn on her. Red hair was piled on her head and her dress would have been the height of fashion ten years ago. Still, he raised his hand. “Are you looking for your son?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was,” she said, coming to lean against his fence. Madame Thénardier shimmied her shoulders just a little bit, as if she were a girl half her age. This woman always liked to flirt with pretty much any young man that came across her path. “But I think I would much rather talk to you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You flatter me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Madame Thénardier asked him about his work - “You must be awfully strong to hoe that dirt!” - and about his animals - “You must be terribly strong to wrangle those pigs!” - and about his house - “You must be very strong to take care of the house AND cook for yourself after working all day! What </span>
  <em>
    <span>stamina!"</span>
  </em>
  <span> while leaning against his fence. Grantaire just sort of let her do as she would until Madame Thénardier finally paused and took a breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I should go fetch Gavroche for you,” he said before giving her a bow that made her laugh and walking away. No matter what he thought about her, she was Gavroche’s mother, so Grantaire would try to keep her in a good mood. Gavroche’s bruises told him all about how she acted when she was in a bad mood. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He jogged around the house and, instead of searching for Gavroche through the fields, rang the bell he used to summon the animals back from grazing. Sometimes he took naps in an empty compost ditch, but the bell always woke him up. Grantaire saw his head poke up immediately, though, and Gavroche bounded towards him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your mother’s here,” he said, which made Gavroche scowl. “Don’t shoot the messenger!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They rounded the house, and Madame Thénardier grabbed Gavroche’s arm right away. She was smiling, but tugging him towards the road. “Your father wants you home,” she said, any trace of flirting gone. “We have to go - now, boy!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire barely had time to shove money into Gavroche’s hand - more than he usually did, knowing his mother would take some from him - before the boy was dragged off. That was...odd. Usually Madame Thénardier just barked an order at Gavroche before leaving. She never pulled him away like that. Grantaire didn’t necessarily want to just let her do what she wanted, knowing the sort of “mother” she was, but what choice did he have? A nagging voice in the back of his head said, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Take him in</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but Grantaire always made excuses. Yet he had taken Enjolras in. That wouldn’t be forever. When Enjolras left, Grantaire would think about taking Gavroche in a little more seriously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He finished up with the weeds, then tossed the bag on the front porch to go inside. The footsteps upstairs were expected this time, and Grantaire tracked dirt up the stairs. Enjolras had the door to the extra room open, and was looking at Grantaire’s current work in progress - a grassy field with a large tree and a swing off to the side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s from a book about the American plains,” he said from the doorway. Enjolras turned, and Grantaire swore his cheeks were flush. “I wanted to try to recreate it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras looked back to the painting. “I didn’t mean to pry, but the door was open. It’s...amazing. You did this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course I did. No one else lives here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not that I thought you couldn’t,” Enjolras said, swift. “I just wouldn’t think someone who makes his own wine, runs his own farm, and keeps his own house would have time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I make the time,” he said. This room was in the front of the house, and he could see the front path through the window. It honestly looked better without all of those damned weeds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras was just looking at the painting, though. “It’s gorgeous. You can almost feel the wind through the grass.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you.” Grantaire walked closer. “I plan on adding a flock of birds. According to that book, there are little yellow birds that are native to the area, but I haven’t decided yet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Enjolras met his eyes, it was with a chuckle. “You told me that first morning that you don’t care for the world at large,” he said. He wandered over to the bookshelf, running his fingers along a row of books - “The Serengeti in Photos,” “A Photojournalist’s Travels Through Norway,” “Peruvian Life in Pictures.” He picked out one about the mountain ranges of Turkey and put it on the table near the window. “Yet you have the entire world right here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire had never thought of it that way before. “It’s all easier to take in this way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras sat on the floor in the sun. “Do you have time to show me your favorite ones?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked out the window once more. It WAS almost lunch time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright,” he said, grabbing a few worn volumes, including the one about Turkish mountains, and sitting next to Enjolras. His sun-warmed shoulder brushed against Enjolras as he sat down, but neither of them mentioned it. They just sat together, in the late morning sunshine, exploring the world from Grantaire’s little farmhouse.</span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dinner that night was far less burnt than breakfast. The rabbit yielded more meat than Grantaire expected. He showed Enjolras the best way to butcher it, but Enjolras showed him a better way to make it more flavorful than just salt. Grantaire grew herbs, but never used them himself. It seemed like a waste of time, when he could sell them instead. Yet he followed Enjolras around, picking the herbs he requested, then letting Enjolras chop them and rub the meat down. The kitchen had never smelled so nice before. As they cooked, they bickered a little - this time, over monarchy. Enjolras had gotten on the subject, somehow, and when Grantaire had stated that he thought a monarchy could work with a suitable system of checks and balances, Enjolras had gone off. Maybe Grantaire had done it on purpose. He liked debating with Enjolras. Something told him that Enjolras enjoyed it, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire suggested that they take advantage of the warm weather and eat outside, once everything was ready. He had just opened the back door when there was another knock on the front. With a sigh, he walked out to answer it. Maybe someone was coming by looking for a handout. That happened often enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet when he opened the door, the man standing there was clean and well-groomed, with neat sideburns and stern eyebrows. His uniform was crisp and clean. “Good evening, sir.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good evening,” he said, keeping his bulk in the doorway. “Can I help you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are Hercule Grantaire, yes? This is your farm?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man flashed a badge and a paper at him. “I am Inspector René Javert. I have received a tip that you have information on the whereabouts of a dangerous fugitive from the law.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“May I ask the source of this tip?” His voice was steady but all of a sudden, his heart was pounding. Hopefully Enjolras had heard that and gone into the basement - or better yet, outside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The inspector shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir, but I cannot. Does the name Lucien Enjolras mean anything to you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Isn’t that a kind of cheese that makes you sick if you eat it wrong?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Inspector Javert’s mouth tightened into a line. “He is a communist revolutionary and a dangerous, violent man. I have heard that he had been spotted around your farm.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, Inspector, but I have nothing to offer you. My cousin was visiting earlier. Perhaps they look similar.” He shrugged. “I don’t know any revolutionaries, but I was just about to go spread manure on my fields if you’d like to accompany me and tell me more.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a scrunching of his nose, Inspector Javert stepped back. “No, thank you. If you do see anything, please report to me at the inn in town. I will be there while I investigate the area.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course, sir.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And…” Inspector Javert seemed to hesitate. “You run this farm on your own? The government can help you with that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For the second time in less than five minutes, he felt as if he had been doused with ice water. “I do well enough on my own.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Small farms such as yours are not the way of the future,” Inspector Javert said. “I recommend you take the initiative. I will forward you an address to the proper agency.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” Grantaire said, closing the door. “Now I really must attend to my manure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shut the door, then locked and bolted it, before turning around and pressing his back to the wood. He couldn’t even tell if the man had left yet. Enjolras no longer seemed to be in the house. Grantaire was relieved, but hoped he hadn’t gone too far.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Things were changing in his little town.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“I should leave,” Enjolras said. Grantaire was sitting with him in the hayloft after dinner. It was dark in the barn, lit only by the moon, with the sounds of the animals roaming around underneath them. They would be settling down to bed soon, and Grantaire should be doing the same, but he was wide awake after that visit. Not only had someone reported that Enjolras was here, but now a government representative was looking at his land. Grantaire had never thought about what he would do if this day came, because he never expected it to come. He had never expected to be housing a revolutionary with a bounty on his head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And somehow, he had never expected that revolutionary to just up and leave. Why? Grantaire knew that Enjolras was just here while his wrist was healing. Enjolras hadn’t even been here that long. Yet Grantaire hadn’t imagined what life would be like once Enjolras gone and he was on his own again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I doubt that the inspector will stay in the area much longer. As long as you stay out of sight, no one will know you’re here,” he said.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Enjolras sighed. “Just stay out of sight? Hidden away like the protagonist of Tennyson work? I will never be able to get anything done that way.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He only showed up AFTER you went out front,” Grantaire pointed out. “How else would anyone know you were here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So now it’s my fault?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was Grantaire’s turn to sigh. “I didn’t say that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then what did you say?” Enjolras turned to face Grantaire in the dark. Even angry, he was beautiful. The moonlight graced the curve of his cheek and got caught in his curls. Grantaire felt as if he had been struck in the face by a sunbeam. “Well!?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grantaire had forgotten that he was supposed to be arguing. “I...I just don’t want you to get hauled off to prison, is all! It’s not the place for someone like you. Trust me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Enjolras’ eyes softened. “...have you been, Grantaire?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He nodded. “When I was younger. I got into a drunken brawl with some rich bastard who was getting handsy with one of my friends. I was locked up for a couple months. It’s not pretty.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh. I didn’t know that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, it’s not something I shout from the rooftops!” He smiled at Enjolras. This was how they argued - forgetting about it halfway through. “It made it hard to find a decent job after I got out. Luckily farming suits me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It does,” Enjolras said, touching his shoulder in a way that lit up every vein in Grantaire’s body. “I hope that my presence here doesn’t put your farm in any more danger. Which is why I need to leave.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Here it went again. “You’re still injured, though. You can’t go running about the woods with your arm in a sling.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Germany can’t be that far. Saarbrücken is only a couple day’s walk from here, tops.” Enjolras turned to look out the small window at the back of the barn. His hand fell from Grantaire’s shoulder. He missed the touch like the flowers missed the sun.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And what then?” Grantaire asked. “When you’ve arrived in Saarbrücken?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a sigh, Enjolras flopped back into the hay. His fair fluffed around his face. “I’ll make plans once I’m there. Figure out the next step.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“All alone? Do you even speak German?” Grantaire hadn’t even thought of that before.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...no. Must you argue with everything I say?” Enjolras folded his arms, still laying down. His hair was fanned out behind him, and a sunbeam passed right over his shapely mouth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grantaire was overcome with the desperate urge to kiss him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wait?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Yes.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Only when I see something to argue with!” he said, hearing his voice crack, words coming out rushed. He stood up, brushing the hay off of himself, and moved towards the ladder. “But not tonight! I need to get to bed!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What? So suddenly?” Grantaire heard Enjolras sit up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, yes, I just realized how late it’s gotten!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grantaire rushed off, across the field and up into the house. He barely took time to change into his pajamas before crawling into bed. He was not only housing a revolutionary, but he had some sort of feelings about that revolutionary. </span>
  <em>
    <span>For</span>
  </em>
  <span> that revolutionary. What was he going to do?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>In the morning, Enjolras was still asleep when Grantaire got up. That was fine by him.He needed to think about his new realization. It wasn’t as if Grantaire had never developed feelings for anyone before. The woman who served at the pub in town. The daughter of a shoemaker who used to work in town. The blacksmith’s apprentice, when he had lived around here. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>None of those people had ever been living in his house.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grantaire tried to distract himself with his work, caring for the crops and his animals. He knew that it was about time to go into town himself, pick up a few things. The inspector could still be there, and Grantaire didn’t want to run into him. Maybe he should go now - by the time he got to town, the general store would just be opening up, but nobody else would be much about. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He worked his way back to the house. Grantaire heard Enjolras moving around upstairs, but didn’t go up. He left a note saying where he was going and went out to start the tractor. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Indeed, the general store was open by the time Grantaire’s rusty old tractor trundled into town. He swung himself off of the death trap and pocketed his keys. He strolled into the store, nodding at the owner. They exchanged a few pleasantries as Grantaire looked around. The store was small, everything in view of the front counter. Grantaire picked up a few essentials - including a small package of chocolate. As he waited for the owner to tally up what he owed, Grantaire looked over the newspapers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That school picture of Enjolras was front page, with the headline, “VIOLENT COMMUNIST STILL AT LARGE; CONSIDERED ENEMY OF THE STATE.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He made sure to buy a copy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You heard about that, huh?” the store owner said, looking over the newspaper as he added that to the tally. “That’s what’s wrong with the youth today! Everyone in the city is radicalized!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grantaire grunted a noncommittal sound. He paid for everything and left, eyes scanning the newspaper. After loading his purchases onto the back of his tractor, Grantaire leaned against the faded red side to see what this article had to say. Most of it was the same, but with a little more personal information about Enjolras. His parents were no longer alive, which he had said. Enjolras had been in school for philosophy. Had Grantaire never asked him? Around here, university was a long-off dream at best, and an aspiration to be mocked at worst. Grantaire had never even considered school past the age of 16. When one could paint, drink, and dance, what did a degree matter?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He couldn’t wait to debate Enjolras about it later.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That meant he would have to actually talk to the man.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When had life become so difficult?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After reading the article, Grantaire threw the newspaper among his other purchases. He should get a few other things while he was in town. He made a stop at the pharmacy inside their small doctor’s office, thinking that he should restock his first aid kit. He also got something for Enjolras’ pain, kicking himself for not thinking about it sooner. Enjolras never complained about it; he had nearly forgotten Enjolras was injured at all until their previous discussion. Grantaire placed an order for more ice and stopped in to talk to the butcher as well.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On his way back to the tractor, he heard a shout.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Respect your mother, boy, she’s the only one you got!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kids misbehaving, so early? Grantaire had been a little monster, too, though. He couldn't say anything.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shove off, she don’t respect me so why should I respect her?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oh. That was Gavroche’s voice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grantaire followed the sound, trying to keep out of their view – judging from the sound, they were behind the pub. He lingered near the small pathway.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re goin’ back to that farm today,” Madame Thénardier snapped. “I know he’s hidin’ something. That inspector says we don’t get that bounty if they don’t find that rioting son of a bitch right where we say!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He froze.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I already TOLD you, no one else is there!” Gavroche sounded like he was done with his parents. “Grantaire would have TOLD me – “</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You think he’s that stupid? He wouldn’t go shouting it around if he’s hiding a criminal! People only hide criminals for two reasons, you hear me? Two reasons! Either they’re a criminal themselves, or they’re waiting to collect on a bounty!” Thénardier said.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Grantaire wouldn’t-“</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A slap. Grantaire should have stormed right back there, but he didn’t. It gnawed at him, but his feet stayed planted. “I saw what I saw, and that commie blond was up there in your precious farmer’s house clear as day! You get me proof and you get to keep your teeth.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gavroche muttered something, and Grantaire returned to his tractor. He needed to get back to the farm.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I should definitely leave,” Enjolras said. Grantaire hadn’t hesitated to tell Enjolras exactly what he heard. Now Enjolras was holding the newspaper, pacing through the kitchen. “Someone saw me, someone </span>
  <em>
    <span>recognized</span>
  </em>
  <span> me, now I’m in danger, and that boy is in danger, and you’re in danger. </span>
  <span>If people who have offered themselves in the search of higher truths are hurt, that is something I am willing to accept. Not eager, not happy, but it is the way they chose. When innocent people -”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Gavroche may be innocent,” Grantaire said, reaching out to put his hand on Enjolras’ elbow, trying to calm him down. “But I am not. I chose to let you stay. I chose to help you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Enjolras grabbed Grantaire’s jacket in a shaking fist. “And how do I repay you? Putting your entire livelihood in danger!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He put his hand over Enjolras’, pressing it to his chest. Panicked blue eyes met his.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s alright,” he said. Enjolras’ skin was so warm and soft. “You said yourself that this farm wouldn’t last long. Someone would have shown up eventually.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Enjolras was silent for a moment, then let his head drop, forehead coming to rest on Grantaire’s collarbone. Their bodies became a circuit; did Enjolras feel the same electricity running between them that Grantaire did?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His thoughts were interrupted by Enjolras’ shoulders jumping. He froze, then when Enjolras took a shuddering breath, put his other hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. For a moment, they just stood that way, Enjolras taking deep breaths and Grantaire hoping that he wouldn’t make things worse. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I always have the best intentions,” Enjolras finally said, voice wavering. “Always. And things always turn out...like this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grantaire didn’t want to tell him that was often how things went in their world. Hadn’t Robert Burns said it best? “It’s not your fault.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I started everything,” he said. “I put it into motion.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You can’t control the way a rock rolls when you push it down a hill. It’s not your fault.” Grantaire wrapped his arm completely around Enjolras, careful of the injury.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Enjolras didn’t pull away at all. “No one would have done anything they did had I not gathered them for that demonstration.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You can’t take on the actions of other people. Things get out of hand. You can’t control what other people do in response to your actions,” Grantaire said. “It’s not your fault.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He gripped Grantaire’s lapel tightly. “I never meant for it to get violent, not then, it wasn’t the time…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s like saying it wasn’t time for a thunderstorm.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That inspector only paid notice to your farm because I was here!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not your fault, Enjolras. It’s not your fault.” Grantaire summoned all of his strength to step away and look Enjolras in the eye. “Sometimes awful things happen. Some things will be your fault. But none of this is, alright?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Enjolras did not look convinced. His eyes kept darting to the shuttered windows. “I should still go.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grantaire pulled away completely this time. Enjolras’ hand fell to his side. He looked angry, but with no one to direct that anger at. Maybe that was why Enjolras was so upset with himself. “You should stay! Why are you determined to leave so quickly when you'll be fine here!?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Give me one good reason to stay,” Enjolras said, hand grasping for his own hip. “Stay because they might not find me? Stay because I don’t know German? Stay because -”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Because I want you to!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The words echoed around the kitchen. Grantaire’s own voice pummeled his eardrums. Enjolras watched him in obvious confusion. He couldn’t make the words go away, but he could snatch them out of the air with more words. “I...would like it if you would stay,” he said. “At least for a while. It’s not all selfless care for you, you know. I don’t hate having you around.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Enjolras deflated. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I...well. Maybe for a while, I can stay. Until I heal or come up with a plan...but if there’s any danger, I’m going to get out.” He walked up to peek through a gap in the shutter. After a moment, he added, “All we do is argue. Why would you want me to stay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think of it more as a debate, and I like to debate.” Grantaire folded his arms. “So maybe...don’t jump to conclusions. We’ll figure out what to do about Gavroche when he shows up, and until then, just...wait. Plan for your next move.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And get some wine. I don’t know about you, but I need some.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Enjolras followed him a few steps to the cellar. “Don’t you have more work to do?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grantaire shrugged. “Nothing that I can’t do with a little wine in me. Plum or grape? Or mix?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He heard sigh from the top of the stairs. “Surprise me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Given the chance, Grantaire would.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks for reading!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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